


Bronwe Athan Harthad

by frodo (ringbearer)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Quest of the Ring, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans frodo, Trauma, sexual assault implied
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27741073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ringbearer/pseuds/frodo
Summary: "How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep…that have taken hold."The quest saved the world, but there was a cost that none knew.Save for one.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Bronwe Athan Harthad

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i haven't written for lord of the rings before now. i've been hyperfixating on this series since i was still in single digits age-wise.
> 
> though i shared very much the ideas of bronweathanharthad (both here [which i only found out by trying to snatch up the username myself] and on tumblr), i still feel i must give her credit for this anyhow as much of this was inspired by her headcanons along with her fics do you remember? (https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364855) and fragments (https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990220)
> 
> something to keep in mind:  
> -i am in the process of reading the books. it took me this long to get around to them because i have adhd as well as autism and had trouble understanding what was being said when i tried to read them initially at 7 years old, so expect this to be mostly film canon for the moment. i'm sure as i get further into the books, i will bring in more of that canon as well (hence why i said this is all media types rather than just the films).  
> -things are phrased the way they are for a reason (feel free to ask if you have any questions, though!! i wont mind answering!!)  
> -i started this way both because i wanted to write out these scenes and because i felt it made more sense than starting where the next chapter will  
> -the chapter titles are just numbers in elvish  
> -frodo is trans
> 
> anyway, i very much hope you enjoy this. i am extremely proud of it, especially since it took me literally nearly a full 24 hours to write. 
> 
> please excuse the typos. i mean to go through and edit it when i'm able because there are so many, since i wrote this over the span of 19 hours and slept not a wink in that time.

Frodo stumbled, faster than he probably should have in his weakened state, through the Pass of Cirith Ungol, hugging the jagged rock to his left in a desperate hope to keep himself upright. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his brows narrowed. Shelob’s lair lay behind him and the tower itself lay before him. He vowed to reach it and beyond if it killed him.

Quite suddenly, he rocky path ended and instead opened to an equally rocky clearing. Directly across from where he stood, Frodo could see a set of stairs and beyond a ragged black tower with a light flickering at the top of it.

Cirith Ungol. And further on all of Mordor in its darkened horror.

Now he clung to the wall in an effort to remain unseen by whoever or whatever was before him.

He paused for several long moments, trying to catch his breath – a task that seemed to be near consistent anymore – his eyes fixated on the dark tower in front of him and below, the steps leading to it. He had no weapons now and all he could do was pray he would pass by the darkened structure unnoticed.

Very slowly, pushing away from the wall as he did, he moved forward once more. He would be lying if he said he were not frightened of what he would face within the land of Mordor, but the words he had heard from Galadriel mere moments before still reverberated through his mind: _This task was appointed to you, Frodo of the Shire. And if you do not find a way...no one will._

Squaring his shoulders, letting out a heavy breath, Frodo began progressing onward once more.

It did not matter if he were afraid. Nor did it matter if he reached Mount Doom in one piece. He only had to ensure the Ring’s destruction and Sauron’s downfall.

Nothing else mattered.

Nothing except this one singular task.

Something stirred behind him, small rocks falling from one of the many craggy outcroppings surrounding and behind him. He whipped around in an instant, eyes darting around the clearing, straining to see through the shadows and whatever it was that hunted him.

But he saw nothing except rock and dust and darkness.

And yet for reasons he could not thoroughly explain – nor explain away with something as simple as the familiar burden of the Ring – the hairs on the back of his neck remained standing, his breath still came in short frightened bursts, and his heart beat so fast he was certain it would leap out of his chest onto the dusty stone steps that were carved into the rock at his feet.

But there was nothing for it. No shadows stirred, no rocks moved and, with the speed of the unnerved, Frodo turned back around, turning to face the blackened tower with the flickering light at the top of it once more.

It happened very quickly. A sharp pain blossomed in his abdomen, a surprised grunt escaping him as something hit him. He swayed on his feet, letting out a soft keening, the world spinning about him, white foam bubbling up from between his lips. As the pain began to spread, becoming white hot and deadly, he realized, if only vaguely, whatever had struck him was very likely the cause of the pain to begin with.

But then he was falling backwards, dark claiming him, and he knew nothing more.

* * *

His overwhelming panic and blinding rage had begun when he’d found the last of lembas bread, crumbling to dust, half blown away by the biting wind, on one of the many craggy outcroppings on the Stairs of Cirith Ungol. Clenched in his fists, his teeth grit, moans of fury escaping his lips, Samwise Gamgee watched as the bread crumbled more quickly beneath his fingers. He whipped around, his eyes following the path he had already taken to where he was previously being led. His fury evaporated in an instant, leaving behind only one singular thought that repeated itself over and over again, until he knew nothing else.

_Frodo. Frodo. Frodo._

He climbed the stairs much more quickly the second time around and far faster than he’d descended them, his eyes fixated on the dark point above that marked the Pass of Cirith Ungol. His breath came quickly now as a million horrible scenarios played themselves out in his mind over and over and over again, telling him all was lost, that he would be too late, but spurring him on too, reminding him that there was still a chance, that he didn’t know for sure quite yet exactly what he was going to find once he reached his friend. All he knew was he had to find him, save him if he could, and help him finish his task.

The Pass was dark and full of skeletons and large webs and immediately Sam felt an unease creep into his bones, making him shudder the further into the Pass he got. It wasn’t until he found the Light of Eärendil, fallen amongst the scattered bones, covered in a thin layer of dust, and, shortly after, Sting, caught in one of the many large webs that covered the many twisting tunnels of Pass that his breathing hitched, his hands shook, and he stared at the small trembling Phial of white starlight, his eyes wide, imagining an infinite number of terrible things, thinking only now of all the things that could have and, very likely, probably had gone wrong.

Using sheer adrenaline fueled strength, Sam pulled Sting from the webbing it had been caught in and began running frantically through the tunnels, too afraid to call Frodo’s name for fear he wouldn’t hear a reply. Finally, he fell through an opening that led to another pass and beyond that a wide clearing of ash and jagged rock. Had he been able to see across the clearing, he would’ve see the same dark tower with the flickering light at the top, the same stone stairs that Frodo had seen mere moments ago.

But his vision was blocked by a monstrosity, a massive spider ten times his size or more, holding in its clutches a figure wrapped in the same sticky webbing he’d just escaped.

Sam didn’t need to see through the substance to know who was beneath. Holding up the Light of Eärendil in one surprisingly steady fist, he sneered at the monster and spat out in a low, dangerous tone, “Let him go, you filth.” The spider hissed at him, letting out a shrieking that turned his blood cold. Still, he shouted, “Let him go!”

This time, to his utter surprise, the beast did as commanded, Frodo’s body dropping to the dusty stone floor beneath with a dreadful thud.

Sam’s eyes widened slightly and he sucked in a sharp breath.

A million horrible scenarios, an infinite number of terrible things.

Tightening his hold on the Phial, he continued, his voice trembling slightly, his brows narrowing, “You will not touch him again!”

Again the spider shrieked and hissed, threatening him with its front legs.

He started forward, holding the Phial out in front of him as if it were a shield, his eyes locked onto the monstrosity before him. “Come on and finish it!”

He rushed at the creature and it was only when he’d nearly reached it that it moved towards him as well. Sam swung Sting at it, slicing, dodging, and slicing again, until at last, it flung him backwards with the sweep of one great arm. Sam collapsed, his head smarting against the ash covered stone, the Phial flying out of his fist and landing at the foot of the spider, the light dimming and all but going out as it hit the ash.

Struggling to his feet, Sam watched as the Phial was knocked carelessly aside and the spider began to advance on him once more. Getting up quickly, he held Sting outbefore him and attempted to rush the beast again or at least get one good hit in before it was upon him, but he wasn’t quick enough and in an instant the thing had pushed him up against the surrounding rock, its pincers clamping together over and over again, trying to get hold of him, whilst he, grimacing, was barely able to hold it off by grasping the overlarge things, one in each palm.

Finally, through sheer luck rather than any sort of skill of his own, he got above it somehow and kicked at its face until finally it stumbled back to the clearing floor. He watched it fall, clinging to the rock before turning and, in his panic, having lost his weapon, began trying to climb out of the crevice he had walked into. However, he didn’t get very far before he felt a painful tugging on his leg and he let out a yell of fright before he was pulled off the rock, and began rolling down the spider’s body, collapsing once more onto ashy ground below –

– right next to Sting.

Fingers grasping the hilt of the sword, he watched the spider circle him, standing now above him on the rock and when it rushed him again he was ready, jabbing at its eyes.

Sam grimaced. The blade was covered in black blood, reminding him of orcs and goblins.

The creature began shrinking back from him, feelers covering its face, trying to ward him off. Sam circled it, sword held aloft, then again moved towards it, intending to thrust the sword through its injured eye, finishing the battle once and for all, but the spider was ready for him and instead grasped the blade with its feelers, pulling him forward. Sam’s mouth opened in a loose oval and his brows flew up into his hair as he began trying to pull his only weapon back and replace it under his control.

But it was the spider that won this struggle, tearing Sting from Sam’s grasp and flinging it across the clearing before a moment later, throwing him forward as well, less than a yard from the sword. Sam reached for it, fingers crawling through the ash, struggling to pull it into his grasp, but the spider got there first, holding the weapon down with one of its great legs and Sam rolled over onto his back to see a large stinger protruding from its hindquarters. Letting out a panicked yell, he rolled to one side and then the other, his hand finding Sting once more and in a single fluid motion, he lifted it from the ash and thrust it upwards with a near primal scream.

Right into the spider’s midsection.

The spider’s scream of pain and rage mirrored Sam’s own and when he finally pulled the blade from it, it staggered back, still screeching, batting at him with its legs.

Sam forced himself to his feet, stumbling once before regaining his footing and forcing the spider back into its hovel of tunnels and bones, shouting more than once, “Back! Back!” until at last it was gone, lost in the darkness it’d come from.

In an instant, Sam was back across the clearing and at the side of the web-wrapped figure, still lying exactly where the great spider had dropped it less that ten minutes earlier.

“Mister Frodo!” Sam set Sting down next to him before reaching his bloodstained fingers into the webbing around Frodo’s face and tearing it apart, revealing his face that looked, even now, carved of the finest marble, fair and pale, but beautiful too, his sky blue eyes staring up at nothing at all.

The clear look of one who has long since passed into shadow.

Sam’s eyes widened, his heartbeat quickening, his lips parting slightly as he went stock still. Tears formed in his eyes, his chest heaving as his lower lip trembled. “Oh, no,” he half whispered, praying what he suspected was incorrect, that he was worrying for nothing, that moments from now his friend, his love, his reason for living would blink or smile or take a breath and he would chastise Frodo for worrying him at all.

One hand on Frodo’s shoulder, the other on his chest, Sam shook him. “Frodo! Mister Frodo!”

Lifting him by his shoulders, Sam then pulled him into his arms, his breath shuddering, tears falling from his eyes now, as he said, his voice full of quiet terror, “Wake up.” Another intake of broken breath that shook just as much as the last, his next words escaping him in a whimper, “Don’t leave me here alone.” And then, a moment later, in a whisper, “Don’t go where I can’t follow.” He was shaking badly now, heartbreak, desperation, and an overwhelming sense of utter failure consuming him. “ _Wake. Up._ ”

Nothing happened. There was no change. None at all save for Sam’s eyes growing slightly wider as what could only be described as sheer ruination fell upon his shoulders. “Not asleep,” he whispered, shaking his head, one single tear falling from his eye onto Frodo’s unmoving features. He sucked in a breath that hurt every part of his being, pulling Frodo closer to him, resting his cheek atop Frodo’s head as he gasped out, “Dead.”

His eyes squeezed shut and, even now, trying to be as quiet as possible, he began to weep.

In years to come, it would be this moment that haunted Sam the most. This moment and every other time that he nearly lost the man he held and slowly rocked in his arms now.

He had failed. He had sworn to protect Frodo, to keep him safe, to not lose him, and he had failed.

Whatever happened to him after this, he would deserve it.

A pale blue glow caught Sam’s eye and his tears dried up in an instant as he lifted his head to stare at Sting, illuminating a small patch of darkness around them. His head snapped to the Pass the stone steps led to as he heard hissing, growling voices coming down it, growing ever louder as they grew ever closer.

Moving quickly, Sam tugged apart as much of the webbing as he could without making it look too much more disturbed, pulling the ring off of Frodo’s neck before grabbing Sting and darting into the shadows behind an outcropping of rock just as a quintet of orcs emerged from the Pass.

One was much shorter than the other four with green skin and it was he who spoke first: “What’s this? Looks like old Shelob’s been having a bit of fun.”

“Killed another one, has she?” said one of the taller two. This one had dark skin and white hair.

“No,” the green skinned orc said. He prodded at Frodo’s limp form with the end of a rolled up whip.

Sam’s fingers curled into the ashy ground. He wanted to rush at them, run them through just as he had the creature that had slunk back into its caves, prevent them from even breathing in Frodo’s direction.

“This fellow ain’t dead,” the short orc went on.

“Not dead?” Sam’s heart filled with hope and then dread in the same moment.

“She jabs him with her sticker and he goes as limp as a boned fish.” The orc now prodded one of the taller ones surrounding him. “Then she has her way with them. That’s how she likes to feed. Fresh blood.” He pointed at Frodo with his whip, not touching him this time. “Get him to the tower!”

As Sam watched, two of the other orcs picked Frodo up, one had his head, the other at his feet and began carrying him up the stone steps, back up the Pass.

“Samwise, you fool!” he cursed himself in a whisper.

“This scum’ll be awake in a couple of hours,” an orc out of his line of vision said.

The short orc brought up the rear of the five who were already headed back the way they’d come, his gaze scanning the small clearing as he said, “Then he’ll wish he’d never been born.”

Sam glared at the disappeared company of orcs, moving forward and out from behind the outcropping as quietly as he could.

Due to his own everlasting folly, Frodo was now in the clutches of the enemy and the stars above only knew what the orcs would do to him once he awoke. Or even before then.

 _We’ll see about that,_ Sam thought, gritting his jaw.

He would not fail him again.

* * *

The first thing Frodo became aware of was a dull throbbing between his legs that confused him thoroughly, but made him shudder and yearn desperately for the oblivion he’d just arisen from. But as he awoke, he became aware of other things: the pain radiating from his middle to all the rest of his body, the chill in the air around him, the hard stone beneath him, the fact that he was without a shirt, and the realization that his wrists were bound by ropes so thick his fingers felt numb.

He felt lighter, too; freer. It would not be for a few more minutes that he found out why.

He went very quickly from simply wanting to sleep to being fully awake and panicked, his wrists twisting slightly in their bonds. It was through mere instinct alone that he managed to keep from moving very much and therefore giving away the fact he was conscious now and very much aware of all that was happening around him.

His panic increased just as quickly as he realized slowly, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for a way, _any_ way out of the horrifying situation he’d all but walked into, that escape would be nearly impossible, bound and stripped of weaponry as he was. And even if he did manage to escape, odds were he would only be captured again and then killed and killed horribly.

At least that was what he prayed. Death would be a mercy in comparison to whatever Sauron had planned for him should the Dark Lord get his hands on him. In truth, he dared not think of that alternative where Sauron kept him alive as a pawn of torment for his own dark pleasures – though it wouldn’t be altogether undeserved; the Shire would surely fall were the Ring to come into his grasp.

Not for the first time, images of what he had seen in Galadriel’s mirror tortured him and he saw the whole of the Shire in flames, everyone he knew enslaved, and those who had not yet been captured, killed, or worse, at the hands of the Nazgûl.

Closing his eyes tight against the growing dark both in the world and his mind, Frodo attempted to conjure up images of the Shire, of Bag End, of the Green Dragon and the Brandywine River, of the market place and Bag Shot Row.

But there was nothing, only a bottomless pit where the memories had been.

Heart pounding, desperation growing within him, he tried to recall the river his parents died in, the home he’d lived in at the time of their death, the days when Bilbo had been in a foul temper or the rain had ruined the books he’d left outside.

Those memories were just as vanished as the others, and while he still knew the Shire existed, no visual memory or context of it remained in his mind.

Only Sam’s voice, singing quietly to himself as he worked in the front garden remained.

Again he cursed himself for sending Sam away, for trusting Sméagol over him, for all of the things that had happened since he’d awoken earlier that day – for he assumed it must be day, though it was impossible to tell any longer.

“Hands off!” a growl of a voice said from behind him, pulling him out of his tortured thoughts and back into his horrifying present. “That shiny shirt! That’s mine!”

“It’s going to the Great Eye,” another retorted, “along with everything else!”

Immediately, Frodo began pawing at his chest, feeling for what he already knew wasn’t there.

Behind him, the orcs were arguing, making threats, and then outright fighting, but their words hardly registered in his mind. His chest heaved and his eyes widened as his hands felt at his scarred torso over and again, thinking, believing, _praying_ that maybe, just maybe, if he felt at it long enough, his fingers would eventually brush against metal and all would be well.

They never did.

 _I’ve failed!_ The words came to him as the dreadful full weight of his situation dawned on him. _The world will fall and it will be I who caused it!_

And then: _I wish the ring had never come to me, I wish none of this had happened._

The words rang true even after all this time.

His shoulder throbbed and ached, his abdomen pulsed, and his head swam, but he felt none of it.

The only thing he _could_ feel was the depth of his failure.

* * *

The tower at the end of the Pass turned out to be more of a black castle than a tower and, as he came upon it, Sam could hear a commotion coming from inside. His hands shook, but not for fear of himself.

What if it were Frodo the commotion were about?

It was a thought that didn’t bear thinking about at all.

Edging along the pathway leading up to the imposing structure, he kept close to the castle’s outer walls as he approached the only entrance he’d been able to find, ready to duck behind the wooden carts and scaffolding pressed against the grey brick should the need arise.

It never did.

By the time he reached the entrance, the noise coming from within had died down and he came upon what appeared to be a massacre. He stared around at the dozens of dead orcs, many slain in gruesome fashion, others having been felled by sword or spear or some other means altogether.

Prying a second sword out of the grip of one of the many dead, he began rushing through the castle, checking every room, every hall, looking for Frodo, but not daring to shout his name for fear that one or both of them would be caught and killed or worse. He discovered very quickly that wherever Frodo was, it was not on the bottom level. It was then he began searching for a way to get to the levels beyond, his gaze darting this way and that until he rounded a corner and found an archway leading to a winding set of stairs.

He didn’t hesitate before he began running up them. For all he knew, there were more up above.

Turning another corner and coming onto a narrow landing, Sting began to once more glow and, through an opening in the stone, he saw another set of stairs across the rotunda that was the center of the tower. Standing on them, very slowly descending, were a quartet of orcs. At least one of them he was sure had been a part of the five who had whisked Frodo away to this dreadful place to begin with.

All at once his rage returned as he reached a short passageway on the landing that led to the bottom of the stairs. He let out a roar of rage, but it didn’t stop there, it grew within him like a virulent thunderstorm just as it passes overhead. By the time he came within sight of the orcs, huffing as though having run much further than he had, he knew that had he no weapons, he would have been able to tear them limb from limb just as easily as he could hack them off with a sword.

He didn’t wait before rushing up the stairs at the orcs, wanting to destroy each and every one of them for whatever it might’ve been they’d done to Frodo in his absence.

He ducked the first blow aimed at him and managed to, instead, run through the assailant, barely watching it slump against the wall before he shouted, fury etched into every syllable, “That’s for Frodo!”

The next he slashed across the side, hearing it cry out as it tumbled to the ground far below. Another yell escaped him: “That’s for the Shire!”

The final one he cut across the heel before pushing it off the edge of the stairs as he had its compatriot, screaming, “And that’s for my old Gaffer!”

In the struggle, he’d lost track of the last one, but that hardly mattered. Frodo was somewhere above him, needing him, waiting for him no doubt, despite how things had gone on the Stairs.

One lost orc did not bear consideration.

There were far more important things to attend to.

* * *

Little had been accomplished at the top of the tower beyond Frodo managing, even with his bound wrists, to pull what remained of Shelob’s webbing from around his face. He didn’t dare do more than that, even as he listened to the violence happening below. Logically, he knew his captors were far too preoccupied by their own internal dramas to pay any heed to a prisoner they knew was thoroughly unable to escape, but the threat of what would be done to him were he discovered to be alive and kicking was so great that it wasn’t until the commotion below died down altogether that he finally began twisting his wrists in the thick ropes, trying to, by some miracle, get free.

He let out small grunts of pain as the ropes bit into his skin, tearing at his flesh and bruising it as he struggled desperately, wondering what might become of him if he didn’t manage to free himself and escape from here before he was discovered.

“Stop your squealing, you dunghill rat!”

In an instant Frodo managed to flip himself over, letting out a gasp as his lips parted and his trembling increased. Coming up a ladder through a hole in the floor of whatever room he was in was an orc, one with a voice he recognized. It was one of the two who’d been arguing over all they had found on his person what felt like both mere moments before and many days ago.

The orc pulled a long ragged dagger from a sheath at his back and Frodo’s eyes went to it instantly, unable to stop himself from imagining all the ways such a weapon could damage his very vulnerable flesh.

Again the space between his thighs throbbed and no part of him wanted to examine why.

He swallowed hard, his gaze returning to the orc’s face as the creature said, “I’m gonna bleed you like a stuck pig!”

The orc raised the blade, barring his teeth at Frodo whilst Frodo braced himself for the pain of the blow, but it never came.

A moment later, there was a horrible sound as of crunching bones and the orc dropping the knife, its eyes widening as Frodo felt fear overtake him all over again as he tried to comprehend what new devilry had come to defeat his would-be killer.

Then the blade broke through the orc’s chest.

A blade gleaming bright blue.

And there was Sam, the love of his life, his only protector, rising up from behind the orc, his teeth grit against the tears in his eyes as he said, “Not if I stick you first.”

“Sam!” Frodo cried, quite unable to believe the miracle occurring right before his eyes.

Pulling the sword from the orc’s back, Sam’s eyes watched as the thing fell to the side, wanting to well and truly make sure it was dead, though the blade had stopped glowing, before he turned his gaze to Frodo laying in front of him, appearing cold and tired and with more scars than he remembered, but otherwise unharmed.

“Oh Sam, I’m so sorry,” Frodo said, his tone desperate, pleading to be understood and forgiven. “Sorry for everything.”

To his surprise, Sam only stared at him, smiling, an expression that could only be described as pure love and devotion spread across his face, reminding Frodo of summer wind and autumn leaves.

Of all the good things in this world that he’d somehow forgotten up until this very moment.

Good things that only Sam’s kind heart and pure smile could bring back to him.

Sam set down Sting and began working at Frodo’s bonds, saying, “Let’s get you out of here.”

“It’s too late. It’s over,” Frodo gasped then, his crushing sense of failure and overwhelming hopeless returning all at once. “They’ve taken it. Sam...” he paused then, watching as the smile evaporated from Sam’s face to be replaced by drawn brows, widened eyes, and parted lips, “they’ve taken the Ring!”

Sam’s expression softened slightly as he said, his tone soft, almost as though, even now when they were utterly alone, he was still afraid of being overheard, “Begging your pardon, but they haven’t.”

Frodo’s own expression softened, though wasn’t altogether soothed as he watched his friend stand and pull inexplicably from his pocket, the golden bit of metal, dangling in the torchlight on its silver chain.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Sam went on, “so I took it.” He held it out to Frodo then. “Only for safekeeping.” Despite his misgivings about the whole situation, despite the whisperings that had once again started up in the back of his mind, this last statement broke Frodo’s heart, knowing only too well how clear a testament it was to what Sméagol had done to Sam and the fear he’d instilled in him.

Fear that Frodo would send him away again.

He vowed in that moment that, no matter what happened, no matter what anything or anyone else told him, he would die before he allowed that to happen for a second time.

And yet, even as the vow was made, the first words out of his mouth were, “Give it to me.” And to his shock as he reached for it, Sam pulled it back towards him, one hand coming up to cup at the thing, his brows drawing together, and an expression very much unlike his own flashing across his face, in his eyes, for more than the few moments it took to accomplish this.

It was startling.

“Give me the Ring, Sam,” Frodo said again, struggling now to remain calm, the tiny weapon’s hold over him coming back at once so strongly he hated himself for it. “Sam! Give me the Ring!”

Sam stumbled back for a moment, drawing the thing closer to him still before at last he held it out to Frodo once more who snatched it away before he had a chance to pull it back again.

He lifted the chain over his head, letting it settle around his neck like a lead weight, his eyelids fluttering slightly. “You must understand,” he continued, imploring Sam to do just that, “the Ring is my burden. It will destroy you, Sam.”

And as Frodo slumped back, only just holding himself up against the wall behind him, breathing with difficulty, the implication was clear: it was already destroying Frodo.

Frodo didn’t see the fresh tears forming in Sam’s eyes as he witnessed this.

“C’mon, Mister Frodo,” Sam said, his eyes never leaving his friend’s struggling form, even as he bent to retrieve Sting from its place on the floor. “We best find you some clothes. You can’t go walking through Mordor in naught but your skin.”

* * *

In a tower full of dead orcs, it was only too easy for them to find a disguise fitting of Mordor, and so, clad in orcish armor and helmets and torn bits of cloth that only just fit, they exited the black tower and went up the path they had not yet taken to see Mordor in all its horrific glory spread out below them in a mess of fire and ash and blackened stone. Across the sunken valley that was not unlike an abyss, there was the Mountain of Fire, spewing its insides up into the smoke filled air, covering all the land in shadow.

“We did it, Mister Frodo,” Sam said quietly, his eyes locked onto the cracked world that lay spread out below them. “We made it to Mordor.”

“There's so many of them.” Frodo’s eyes were darting across the valley, taking in the hundreds of orc camps that lay between them and their ultimate destination, their bonfires and torches flickering in the gathering dark. “We’ll never get through unseen.”

And then he saw it, the tower at the far end of the valley, only a short ways off from the Mount itself.

He couldn’t help it. He staggered back a few steps, his eyes widening, his breath quickening, the horror of it all seeming to crash down on him all at once.

“It’s him,” he gasped, staring at the far tower. “The Eye.”

It looked just as it had in the shadow world he was transported to when he wore the Ring: undulating flames surrounding a vertical almond shaped void. The only difference between the two was this one darted all across the landscape, a beacon of sickly yellow light protruding from its gaze.

The other only stared and only saw him.

He glanced at Sam, panic rising within him again.

“We have to go there, Mister Frodo,” Sam said gently, turning to him. “There’s nothing for it.”

Frodo knew he was right, but still he said nothing, only turning his own head very slightly to look at his friend, his terror shining through his eyes as brightly as the beam of horrific light they could see scanning the world before them.

“Come on,” Sam went on. “Let’s just make it down the hill for starters.”

Down the hill. The end of the steep slope seemed to go on for what looked like miles and reaching the bottom of it felt very much like far more than he could do.

His upper back ached and his neck burned, the beginning of the Ring’s final torment.

The end of his last flickering hope.

His stepped forward, beginning the slow agonizing descent into the valley.

It was laborious, every step taking all of his effort and every step harder to achieve than the last. Desperate for relief, his thoughts again turned to his memories, trying over and again to recall anything about his childhood, but when that proved futile, he strained, instead, to think of the beginning of it all, of the days with Sam walking through the Shire, of finding Merry and Pippin, their arms full of Farmer Maggot’s crop, of the mushrooms on the road, of the wood elves singing on the edge of the forest.

Again it was all in vain.

Again he despaired.

And again he turned instead to memories that were not so pleasant: the shrieking Nazgûl on the road, hearing Pippin say his name in the Prancing Pony, following Aragorn through the wilds just outside of the Shire, even the few moments on Weathertop when he first awoke from a nap and could hear Merry, Pippin, and Sam all speaking jovially as they cooked themselves a dinner that smelled delightful despite the consequences of it.

All he could recall were vague snatches of all of it and even then some of it was erased from his mind completely. Even the events prior to his stabbing on Weathertop were fuzzy and, of everything else, those memories were the clearest of all.

The events of the stabbing remained in perfect agonizing detail.

_You know the way this ends._ _You’ve known it far longer than you care to admit. You are a failure, Frodo Baggins. And you will beg for death before the end._

Frodo shuddered. He knew the voice. It was the song of his nightmares and sometimes of his waking torments.

He refused to name it, believing fully to name it would be to grant power.

He could not allow that. Not now. Not when he was so close to achieving his goal.

The final words were ones Boromir had said to him in the forests on the banks of Anduin and, though he knew it was Boromir that had said them, he could not remember Boromir’s face or the river or the forest itself. All of it was lost in that black abyss.

_Why not give in and put an end to your needless suffering? I will make it painless, I swear it._

Frodo shook his head slightly once, half hoping the action would clear it entirely.

All he heard in response was a high-pitched merciless laugh.

* * *

Sam slid the rest of the way down the slope, Frodo having done the same moments before him. They both stumbled, trying to find sure footing as they staggered to the edge of a ravine across a gravel path that wound its way through the craggy outcroppings around them. A horn sounded from somewhere far off and, in what could only be described as a miracle or the answering of a prayer, great masses of bodies in the valley began moving away from where they stood.

“The orcs!” Sam exclaimed in shock, his gaze fixated on the wonder happening before them. “They’re moving off!” He turned to Frodo, who panted beside him. “See, Mister Frodo? Some luck at last.”

He smiled beneath his helmet, placing a hand on Frodo’s shoulder, wanting to keep up the spirits of his friend who’s strength he knew was waning.

But the relief and joy were short-lived. Less that a moment had passed between them when off to his right, Sam heard a foul voice shout, “Move it, you slugs!”

It came from up the path and when they turned to look they saw, to their horror, an unending line of orcs marching their way.

With no place to hide.

Their eyes widened, this time staggering back a few steps in alarm. Desperate to remain hidden, they backed away off the path, pressing themselves up against a rock, heads down, praying if they kept their eyes off the approaching hoard they would escape notice.

This time their prayers were not answered.

The driver of the marchers stumbled to a halt directly in front of them, whip clutched in one hand, gaze cast out across the platoon in its charge. In an instant, the driver had turned to them and, raising its whip, bringing it cracking down, it began shouting: “Get up! Come on, you slugs!”

Arms raised against the biting pain of the whip, Frodo and Sam struggled to their feet, the driver continuing to shout all the while.

“You two are going straight to the front line! Come on, move it! Fall in!”

And then they were being pushed, pulled into the neverending line of orcs who were abandoning what passed for their homes and heading who knew where. Sam struggled to keep himself from stumbling and falling over his own two feet, his gaze darting this way and that, searching for Frodo until he found him walking as quickly as he could manage alongside him, his own eyes moving back and forth, trying to gauge the reactions of those around him, wondering if they knew what was in their midst.

“To the gate, you slugs! Come on! Don’t you know we’re at war?!”

As they blundered on, the Ring grew heavier and heavier around Frodo’s neck, the metal of the chain it dangled on biting into his skin, bruising and then burning him where it touched. His feet quickly began to drag and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to keep himself upright, often only just barely keeping himself from tripping over the stones on the ground or his own feet.

This time his mind turned to Rivendell, using great effort to conjure up the white stone buildings, the babbling streams and calm pools, the waterfalls coming down from nearby mountains, the autumn leaves falling across the cobbled stone paths; and when that failed he tried to recall Elrond’s Council, the dwarves and elves and men he’d never seen or heard of before, even the sound of Gandalf’s voice uttering Black Speech, a desperate attempt to show those sat around the Ring what it could do.

What the voice of evil could truly sound like.

It was then that the voice returned.

_Perhaps you would prefer to join me, spare yourself pain and fear. It could all end so easily. Right here. Right now. How simple it would be for you to put the One onto your finger and return to me what is rightfully mine._

_Never!_ Frodo stunned himself by answering. He said nothing more, but again he heard that terrible laughter, the sound echoing in his ears, reverberating through his head, sending shivers down his pained and weakening spine.

The Ring was so very heavy.

“Company halt!”

A horn sounded and Frodo staggered to a stop, avoiding colliding with the orc in front of him by the barest of margins. He blinked slowly, the world swimming before him. His eyes were on the ground in front of him and he swayed on his feet, the Ring dragging him to the dirt.

He could not remain upright.

“Sam!” he gasped out, only barely managing to keep himself from reaching out to grab at his friend in a desperate bid to stay standing. “Help me!”

No sooner had he spoken than his knees buckled and he began to sink towards the earth. Sam’s arms flew out, grabbing hold of him just in time. “Mister Frodo!”

A grunting could be heard not far off and Sam’s head snapped up.

A large orc, fat and brutish, was walking along the line of orcs, examining the ranks, pushing some, ignoring others, all the while growing ever closer to where Frodo and Sam hid among them.

“Stand up, Mister Frodo,” Sam said softly, his eyes never leaving the inspecting orc. “Stand up!”

Frodo’s eyelids fluttered and he swayed, even on his knees. “It’s so heavy.” His voice came out thin, almost slurred and everything around him felt hazy. Later he would never quite be sure if this was from his own exhaustion or the fumes that permeated the air around them. His head fell forward and, though he could not see the red, irritated, and peeling skin around his neck beneath the Ring’s chain, Sam did.

He pressed his lips together, clenching his jaw as his eyes widened slightly.

Never before had he seen such a vivid image of Frodo’s suffering as he did staring at that skin.

Sam forced his eyes away from Frodo’s neck, returning his look to the inspecting orc some way off. It was then the orc stopped in his tracks, his head turned to the right, his large ears in their direction. Sam went rigid, unable to get out any words of warning before the creature turned again, this time to face them. Sam had just enough time to gasp out, “Oh no...” before the thing let out a roar and began pushing orcs aside, lumbering towards them, murderous madness reflected in his black gaze.

“What do I do?!” Sam gasped, turning his head left and right, his heart turning into a ]hammer in his chest. “What do we do?!”

The orc was growing ever closer. Soon he would be upon them and then it would all be over.

“Hit me,” Frodo managed, the words coming out in very little more than a breath.

“What?”

“Hit me, Sam,” he said again, his voice a little stronger this time. “Start fighting!”

The last thing Sam wanted to do was hit Frodo, but he had no alternative and did as his friend asked, kicking him as lightly as he could get away with, saying in tone as angry as he could muster, “Get off of me!” He stumbled back, making a clearing in the sea of orcs as he pressed himself up against them. One of them let out a roar. “Nobody pushes me, you filthy maggot!”

The plan worked. All around them the orcs began fighting or cheering for a fight as Frodo and Sam struggled among them, pushing at and hitting each other without any real commitment to the actions.

The orc’s driver returned, whipping them viciously as it shouted, “Break it up! Break it up!”

The sting of the whip came again and again, but both Frodo and Sam ignored it, working at keeping up the act as the large orc approached, saying to the driver, “Oi! I’ll have your guts if you don’t shut this rabble down!”

The driver turned and that was when Frodo gasped, “Go, Sam! Now!”

By some miracle, Frodo managed to crawl through the bodies pressing in on him and then pull himself to his feet as they broke through them and ducked into a tent near the path, a fire blazing inside. In an instant, they had lifted the bottom of the tent, ducked out again, and began scrambling over jutting rocks and jagged boulders to get to the ragged plains that now lay between them and Mount Doom.

And on it went like that; a sea of sharp rocks that looked like teeth blanketed the landscape between the path they had come from and their ultimate destination, the air thick with noxious fumes, streams of snowy white smoke spewing up from fissures in the earth, and a chill that cut to the bone despite the fire swimming beneath their feet and bursting up into the sky from the Mount before them.

Frodo was determined this time, intent upon remembering something, _any_ thing beautiful from his life that came before this agony, but he could not recollect Bilbo’s laughter or his kind eyes, he could not remember Legolas’s shining air or boundless grace, he could not conjure up any of the Fellowship or any of Bag End, and all of the Shire it seemed was lost to him, sucked away by the Ring.

And the closer to Mount Doom they got, the worse it became.

Soon he couldn’t remember Bilbo’s face or smile. He couldn’t remember Merry and Pippin’s laughter or singing nor their faces either. Even his memories of his parents were drowned in the blackness growing in his mind.

He forgot summers in the Shire and the sound of rainfall.

He forgot the taste of good pipe-weed and his favorite ales.

He couldn’t hear the soft babbling of the streams that ran through the wood surrounding Hobbiton.

He couldn’t see the flowers in bloom on his own front porch nor even Gandalf’s fireworks.

He remembered the Mines of Moria, the image of Gandalf falling into the abyss beneath Khazad-dûm and his own unending scream and overpowering guilt as crystal clear as if it had happened only minutes ago.

However, it was not until he forgot the taste of the strawberries and cream Sam would bring him once his old Gaffer harvested the bushes growing just outside their home in early June that he began to panic.

He stopped in his tracks, his eyes growing wide as he let out a gasp.

_No._

Frantic, he began trying to pull up memories of himself and Sam swimming in the Brandywine river, Sam’s smile on Midsummer’s Eve, Sam laughing at a joke he made, Sam’s soft voice as they lay out in the fields near the river, looking up at the stars.

His breathing quickened, his chest heaving.

No. That couldn’t be right. He was just tired, exhausted, thirsty, and cold, and surely, _surely_ if he tried hard enough he would remember, he would see him again as he had been, not the shadow he had become. But there was nothing.

Not even the gentle, beautiful sound of Sam’s singing.

In its place was that high laughter and the sound of deadly flames.

 _No!_ he all but screamed inside himself, too weak and too tired to actually voice his anguish. _You cannot take him from me! Not him! Please!_

He hated how he begged, how pathetic he sounded even to his own ears, but Sam was all he had left. Sam and the Shire and...his memories.

The laughter became overpowering, making his ears ring, the roaring behind it becoming deafening, bringing him to his knees. He willed his arms to lift, to cover his ears and block it out, though he knew that would not help, but his arms were lead weights attached to a failing body.

And then in an instant, it was gone, leaving behind a silence as chilled as the air around him.

He fell to his knees, collapsing among the rocks, letting out a small grunt of pain as he did.

Had he been stronger, he would’ve screamed until he had no more breath left in him.

Every bit of him had been claimed by the Ring, by Sauron, by darkness and evil and death. Whatever remaining hope he’d had was now sucked away, just as gone as his memories.

All he could hear was the silence that was left in their wake.

All he could feel was Sauron, invading every inch of him, violating his mind and body and soul.

And all he could see were eyes and shadow and flame.

Pushing the helmet off his head, Frodo lay on the rocks, gasping, cloying for some semblance of fresh air in the soup of pernicious gases that imbued the Mordorian air.

“I ca – ”

He gasped.

“I can’t – I can’t manage the Ring, Sam.”

He blinked, laying his head on the rocks.

It swam.

The world spun.

“It’s – it’s – it’s such a weight to carry.”

He managed to look up at Sam, watching him from what seemed a towering height.

“It’s such a weight...”

His head went back to the rocks, his breathing labored and rattling in his chest.

Sam removed his own helmet, holding it in one hand and the orc sword they’d stolen in the other. His eyes were full of sorrow and helplessness, his own sense of hopelessness growing with every passing moment. It became accelerated tenfold when he watched Frodo struggle, when he was forced to face just how pained Frodo truly was.

Glancing momentarily at the Mount, he pointed at it with his sword, working to keep his voice strong as he said, “We’re going that way, straight as we can. There’s no point in carrying anything we’re not sure to need.”

* * *

Their remaining pots and pans clattered and clanged on the rocks as they tossed them into a small chasm along with their stolen armor, helmets, mail, and ripped cloth. It was only once all of it was gone, fallen where they couldn’t reach now even if they had wanted to that Sam realized for the first time just how cold Mordor was. The sky was filled with smoke that made their throats dry and their lips chapped, and the air was filled with bits of ash that got in their mouths and coated their tongues. They were grateful they’d managed to refill their waterskins before getting near Minas Morgul, but that had been over a week ago and though a little more than half was still left, it was going quick, try as they might to prevent exactly that.

They plodded on for a little while longer, stubbing their toes on smaller rocks that jutted up out of the ground and burning their throats every time they inhaled.

Over and over again, Frodo kept reminding himself he just had to keep moving forward, keep putting one foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other until they reached the Crack of Doom. Then it would be only a short little walk to throw the Ring into the fire and his task would be finished. All he had to do until then was ignore the darkness of the sky, ignore the smoke and ash, ignore the desolate landscape, and forget the fumes coming up out of the toxic vents that opened up at random points in the ground around them.

 _You’re nearly there,_ he kept telling himself, staggering along behind Sam. _You just have to make it a little further and then at last you can rest._

He was no fool. He knew whatever rest he received at the end of his journey would be final, but he no longer cared as he once might have.

It was a relief, in more ways than one.

At last their tired legs gave out and their weary bodies cried for rest and, finding the best hiding place they could under an overhang of a large rock, they took refuge, pressing up against it, trying their hardest to get comfortable enough for sleep.

Frodo ached all over and his mind begged so desperately for any sort of peace, however frail or false, that his knees buckled as his body gave out completely. It was only through the sheer luck of Sam catching him in his arms, preventing him from hitting his head on one of the many sharp rocks, that he avoided any sort of death or injury.

Sam propped Frodo up against the overhanging rock, sitting down next to him and staring at his toes, dirtied and now buried by the ashy ground. He shivered and shook, feeling hungrier, tireder, weaker than he could ever remember having felt before in his life. He wanted to sleep, wanted to be lost in black oblivion, if only for a few hours.

Wanted to forget where he was and how Frodo was suffering, even in sleep, beside him.

Blinking blearily, his gaze turned to the heavens and through a very short break in the smoke clouding the sky, he saw the wonder of the stars.

How long had it been since he’d seen them? He could not recall.

“Mister Frodo? Look,” he said very softly, his eyes never leaving the pinpoints of light far above. 

Frodo’s eyelids fluttered, but try as he might he could not summon the strength to keep them open for very long or to even move his head to see whatever it was Sam was staring at.

“There is light and beauty up there,” Sam went on, “that no shadow can touch.”

When he received no reply, Sam turned and saw Frodo, truly saw him, for the first time since they’d cast aside their disguises.

His condition was worsening. Every moment he seemed about to collapse and Sam feared soon a day would come where his body gave out and he did not get up again. His skin had become so pale it appeared grey and translucent. His eyes were sunken in his skull and there were dark circles surrounding them, making appear ever more skeletal. When they were open, his gaze was dead, so unlike the one he once knew that Sam became frightened, terrified of what it meant for Frodo.

Terrified there would be no coming back from this in any meaningful way.

_It’s just a feeling. I don’t think I’ll be coming back._

The words haunted Sam now, words that had once sounded so unlikely it was silly, now seemed to press on him and steal his breath like a knee to the chest.

Especially now, watching Frodo sleep, listening to his labored breath.

He spent the whole night listening to it, hardly ever taking his eyes off Frodo, afraid that if he allowed himself sleep, he’d wake up to a corpse.

Frodo’s expressions, even in sleep consisted of only small grimaces and winces, sometimes a soft keening would escape his lips or his whole body would jerk horribly. More than once his hand reached for his wounded shoulder, wincing as he rubbed at it, trying somehow to soothe the pain he felt. When any of this happened, Sam would run his fingers through Frodo’s hair, singing softly to him old Hobbit lullabies or he would speak to him softly, reminding him of the beautiful things he’d forgotten, promising him, even if he didn’t quite believe it himself that they’d see them again. The times his fingers twitched and began inching towards his shoulder – and only slightly less often, the Ring – he would rub at the wound himself or lace their fingers together, reminding him quietly that he was there, he would protect him, he would do whatever he could to keep the pain at bay.

He wasn’t sure what time it was when Frodo finally awoke, Sam having allowed him to wake up naturally, knowing how badly he needed his rest. The sky was still dark and even if it were not, the smoke blocked out any light that might’ve come through to the earth. With difficulty, Sam helped him to his feet and they staggered on, everything they saw looking the same as everything else.

Dogged and determined, Frodo kept trying to conjure up memories of Sam in the Shire.

 _Show me his last birthday party,_ he commanded of his mind, his jaw set. _Show me him dancing at Bilbo’s birthday. Show me his home. Him working in the garden. Us laughing by the stream. Drinking at the Green Dragon. Please! Show me anything!_

But all his good memories had died along with the pieces of himself they were attached to. He no longer knew if he were inside his body or outside it, watching it from above. He no longer felt anything other than pain and exhaustion and despair. He hardly mourned the loss of his memories, his sense of self had been so destroyed. And the pain got worse with every step he took, every little bit of ground he covered, drawing ever nearer to the Crack of Doom. He was too weak to even shake from the bitter cold that had grown around him and inside him. The only agony that rose above all the others was the pain in his shoulder, pulsating sharply, but he could no longer even summon the strength to cry out much less scream at the pain.

Maybe he would get lucky.

Perhaps the next time he fell, he wouldn’t get up again.

Perhaps he would fall asleep and die peacefully, turning to dust among the rocks, barely discernible from the ash that seemed now to blanket everything.

Death would be a blessing.

Anything would be better than the sheer torment his existence had become.

Anything save for giving in to the hissing voice in his head and the Ring dangling from his neck.

When his legs gave out this time, it was, very luckily, against another outcropping, this one more secure than the last with large rocks surrounding him on all sides rather than just one.

Sam watched this happen, wincing and stepping forward quickly, ready to catch him should he need him to, but fortunately he did not.

For several long agonizing moments, Frodo struggled to speak, but all that came out were gasps and small noises that Sam couldn’t decipher into anything resembling words. The pitiful image of his friend, battling now to even talk broke his heart, shattering it into tiny fragments that he knew would never mend.

Whatever was being done to Frodo to break him in half so completely, Sam didn’t want to know.

And yet, somehow, he kept going, though Sam had no answers as to how this was possible either.

 _It isn’t fair,_ he thought bitterly yet again. _Why him? Why must you torment_ him _? What has he ever done besides dream of a world at peace? Why can he not be allowed that same peace?_

More questions. No answers.

Sam would have gladly sold his soul to trade places with Frodo, to give him back his hope and his peace and his sanity, but the truth of the matter was he couldn’t do that, and there was nothing really he _could_ do.

He could only sit there and watch and wait for the time to come when Frodo either gave in or his body gave out for the last time.

With fumbling fingers, Frodo reached for his waterskin, twisting off the cap with difficulty, whilst Sam stood at the entrance to the path between the stones, watching for anyone or anything that might reside within this part of the Land of Fire.

There was nothing at all.

The waterskin was empty. Frodo squeezed it and squeezed it, but not a drop came out, not even when he upturned it completely and shook the thing, willing that life giving liquid to magically appear and soothe his painfully dry throat.

He slumped back against the rocks, struggling to breathe. It seemed he was only capable now of breathing in quick, shallow gasps, anything deeper and his head spun in vicious circles as he took in too much of the poisoned air.

“Take mine. There’s a few drops left.”

Frodo turned to see Sam already approaching him, already removing the cap from his own waterskin before he even knelt down beside him and handed it to him. Frodo wanted to protest, wanted to tell him he needed water too, but speaking was so difficult and his tongue was so thick in his mouth that he couldn’t protest at all. He was determined to push it back into Sam’s hands, determined to make him keep it for himself rather than sacrifice his needs again for Frodo’s, but before he could put these thoughts into action, he found himself taking the skin, tilting his head back, and squeezing what little water remained between his panting lips.

He struggled for air, staring at nothing for several moments before he finally managed to speak: “There will be none left for the return journey.”

Beside him, Sam sighed. “I don’t think there will be a return journey, Mister Frodo.”

And something about the way he said it was so final, so definitive, that Frodo turned to look at him.

Sam, too, had become a shadow of his former self. The Hobbit who had come here with him from the Shire, who had followed him all this way under threat of torture, injury, and death and a great deal more besides, the Hobbit who had assured him they would in fact be going there and back again just as Bilbo had done, had finally lost his hope.

And Frodo realized as Sam offered him his hand, helping him to stand once more, that whatever hope had remained inside him, whatever light he might’ve thought he’d seen at the end of this very long, dark tunnel, had, once and for all, been snuffed out.

* * *

On they went, Sam walking behind Frodo now rather than in front of him, watching him for any signs of decay or collapse beyond what had now become normal for him.

Frodo staggered and stumbled, one hand clutching at the Ring, the other swiping at the air, desperately batting at the poison that surrounded them, making futile attempt after futile attempt to create a pocket to breathe in.

Sam felt on the verge of tears watching him, hearing the small noises of pain he made and labored breaths he took with each step.

He kept his eyes purposefully away from his neck, which had started to very badly bleed, the crimson liquid running down his back, under his skirt, staining bits of it bright red.

How much more could Frodo take, he wondered again, before his body gave out entirely?

They needed to quicken their pace. Who knew how far away the mountain still was. Had they even reached the slopes? He couldn’t tell and he was too weary and pained to look. Distantly, he wondered if how he felt now would stay with him all his life. And if it did, what did that mean for Frodo?

It wasn’t something he could bear to think about.

And he hadn’t the heart to ask Frodo, who was already suffering so wretchedly, so needlessly, that they had to go faster, especially not when he wasn’t sure he could go any faster himself.

Sam watched Frodo stumble and nearly fall as he stepped of a small ledge, both hands now moving back and forth through the air. He was barely remaining upright as it was. He feared that even if Frodo himself attempted to go any faster without being prompted, he would soon collapse and perhaps this time, it would be the death of him.

It was then Sam realized what a blessing death would be for his friend compared to this torture.

His fractured heart broke a little more.

* * *

_I have promised you a quick and painless passing._

_No._

_You want to die. Why not give in? Why not spare the lives of your friends and family? Is it not more selfish to continue this useless quest when I can grant you serenity?_

_No, I cannot. I_ must _not. I will not!_

 _You truly believe yourself noble and selfless? How can you? It is because of you their suffering continues. It is because of_ you _the world of men will fall. Why now allow yourself rest? Either with me or in the grave? Is one really so different from the other?_

_I said no._

_For now, yes, but not for ever. You_ will _give in, Frodo Baggins. I will see to it._

* * *

Frodo was no longer sure where they were or even how much further they had to go. He knew only that he had to keep going, keep moving, keep _trying_ for as long as there was breath in his body, for as long as he could move it at all. If he had to crawl up the slope of Mount Doom on his hands and knees, he would do it.

And he would not give in.

If his body broke down and his mind became fractured beyond repair, he would _not_ give in.

He would rather suffer eternal torment than allow Sauron to win.

_Still believing you can defeat me? How quaint. You will beg for death before the end._

_I will not give you the satisfaction,_ he retorted.

And then, the voice louder, the thunderous inferno more deafening than ever before: _I see you._

Somewhere off to his right, Frodo heard, very distantly, Sam shout, “Frodo get down! Hide!” But the words were muffled, blocked out almost entirely by his own heartbeat blasting through his eardrums, mingling with the voice, the inferno, and the pain inside him to create a perfect storm of paralyzing terror.

Somehow, all of the world had slowed down and Frodo felt, as he turned around by some unsettling impulse, that it took a thousand years just to complete the motion.

The first thing he saw was a blindingly bright yellow light, casting him and all the world around him in a sickly fire-like brilliance.

 _Fire-like_.

And that was when he saw it: the Eye, flaming, piercing, and terrible, boring into his very soul.

Frodo’s eyes widened, the petrifying fear having etched itself permanently into his features, shining out of his own eyes as brightly as the yellow light shone on him now, and, in a motion much more swift than the one that preceded it, he turned back around and began to fall.

He tried to go down gracefully, he truly did, knowing it would only hurt to collapse, but any sort of movements in the direction of the ground swept his trembling legs out from under him, he was already so weak. He grunted in pain as he hit the sharp stones, lying on his side, staring into the middle distance.

 _You cannot hide forever, Frodo Baggins. I_ will _find you and when I do I will kill you. It will be my pleasure. And it will not be quick should you bring me to that. I will take my time. And when I finally grant you the final mercy of death, you will be praying to Valar for it with all the strength you possess._

This time Frodo didn’t reply. He only trembled on the hard cold ground, his eyes the size of saucers, his lips slightly parted to allow quick breaths to come in and out.

No part of him doubted Sauron’s words.

_I will not give in. I will not give up. I will succeed._

_I must._

It felt like the better part of a century rather than only a handful of minutes Frodo lay on the jagged rock, unable to think or feel anything for the fear in his heart.

Finally, Sam said, “It’s gone, Mister Frodo! The light’s passed on! Away towards the North! Something’s drawn its gaze.”

Frodo remained motionless for a moment longer, summoning the strength to push himself upright. His arms shook from the effort and his head pounded and swam, seeming far too heavy to sit atop his weakened shoulders. He panted, his eyes darting back and forth as he tried to make sense of what he’d just heard, wondering what could be more important to Sauron than the One.

_Nothing is more important than the One. Nothing!_

The words, this time, came from himself, and they frightened him. It was a stark reminder that though he felt all had been taken from him, there was still a lot left to lose.

Sam went to Frodo, his hands gentle but strong as he placed them on either side of his torso under his arms and began to help him to his feet. Sam grimaced as he watched Frodo, feeling his ribs through his shirt. He’d barely eaten before they lost the lembas bread and had already been so thin. Now he looked well and truly ill and noticing just how much damage had been done to his frail little body was frightening.

Frodo was dying right in front of him, he realized, and the process was excruciating to witness.

The stretch of land between their current point and the Slopes of Doom seemed both an infinite length and yet no distance at all. Frodo felt both as though he’d been walking across the lowlands of it for an eternity and then somehow it seemed he blinked and he was climbing the slopes, his toes digging for purchase on the slippy ashy ground, his fingers feeling at the rocks for balance.

_I must not give in. I must not give up. I must succeed._

_I must._

It was his mantra, his silent prayer, the source of his will, and a plea. Over and over again he said it, a litany of hope and despair and determination and what little strength he had left.

For in truth, it was more than that.

He _could not_ give in. He _could not_ give up. He _had_ to succeed.

He _had to._

But then Frodo lost his footing slipping so quickly he hardly knew it happened until he hit the soft earth. He did not even know that Sam had fallen with him, gasping in pain as his left side hit a very sharp rock, until he forced his head up, inspecting the way he had still yet to go.

_I must not give in. I must not give up. I must succeed._

_I must._

Digging his fingers into the ash covered mountainside, he used all of his strength, all of his will to push himself upright.

But he could not do it. The Ring had become so heavy. It was a weight beyond measure, beyond reckoning, and add to that the ungodly voice laughing in his ears.

It was all he could hear. That and the fire that accompanied it.

His head wavered, and his eyelids fluttered. It was an enormous effort to simply lift it from the ground, but to keep it up so long, to keep it focused on his invisible destination who knew how far above him was near impossible.

Still, Frodo grit his teeth, his fingers curling more firmly into the rock beneath the ash and he grimaced as he began dragging himself up by his hands alone. The exertion was almost more than his body could bear, black spots appearing on the edges of his vision, everything within him screaming, _begging_ to let the gathering dark take him, even if it meant it was for good.

Even if it meant the failure of the quest and the end of Middle Earth.

But Frodo did not listen.

_I must not give in! I must not give up! I must succeed!_

_I must! I must! Oh Valar, I must!_

He cried out as he clawed at the earth, ignoring his limbs shrieking with white hot pain, ignoring his aching head now pounding from the invader’s laughter and the roaring flames and his own desperate, pleading thoughts. He even ignored Sam, pained though he was.

His focused remained solely on the fire above him and on the words he screamed to himself over and over and over again.

_I must not give in! I must not give up! I must succeed!_

_I must! I must! Oh Valar, I must!_

He made it only a handful of yards before his body gave out and he collapsed into the ash, his lips parted as he gasped for air, drawing in great lungfuls of ash with each labored breath.

_Why not give it to Samwise? He could carry it for you. He could succeed where you have failed._

But Frodo refused to do that. He would not damn his best friend, his heart and soul, to the fate he had taken on himself. This was _his_ burden, _his_ task, and if it killed him, he would get up the mountainside. If it killed him, he would throw it into the fire and himself with it if need be. Sauron could break his soul, take his life away. His armies could beat him, hurt him, kill him. But by Valar, they would not touch Sam.

Not while he still lived.

Not even if it meant his own failure.

Better to die trying in perpetual agony than to live in painless peace and see Sam succumb to the ruination of the Ring.

He would not allow it.

He could not.

* * *

Sam watched Frodo drag himself through the dirt up the side of Mount Doom, trying to will himself to go to him, to help him, but his own exhaustion was reaching its peak now and it took several very long moments of gasping before he finally was able to manage to drag himself up to where Frodo collapsed, his own teeth grit into a grimace, grunts of pain escaping him each time he moved.

When at last he drew level with the other hobbit, he pulled him into his arms, cradling him as he would a sick child, treating Frodo with the utmost care. He was suffering so much already, Sam refused to run the risk of adding to it all. He would be his light in the darkness, his beacon of last lingering hope, even if he kept none for himself. He would die before he allowed Frodo perish in such agony before his time. He would suffer a thousand crooked deaths himself before he hurt Frodo himself.

It frightened him how light Frodo was, even in Sam’s own weakened state and feeling the full weight of Frodo’s limp and near lifeless body.

It should not have been this easy to lift him.

How much of himself had the Ring and Sauron and this foul place sapped away?

It did not bear thinking about and yet the thought still came to unbidden to his mind.

_Frodo is dying. Right here, right now, on the side of this mountain, cradled in my arms, very very slowly and in a great deal of pain, he is dying._

Sam turned his gaze to the peak of the loathsome mountain, all but snarling at it.

His eyes swam with thick tears he had not been able to shed before now and he let out a gasp.

All of Mordor would pay for this tragedy.He would see to it. He would survive just long enough to see it done and then he too would die for a life without Frodo was no life at all.

He would not be able to bear it.

And even if he could, he did not want to.

He turned to Frodo then, staring at him, watching him struggle over and over again to breathe. Sam wasn’t sure how much longer Frodo had before he passed into shadow, but it couldn’t have been long. If he survived to the top of the mountain, to the Crack of Doom and to whatever lay beyond, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

“Do you remember the Shire, Mister Frodo?” he gasped out, half in a whisper. He didn’t remember deciding to speak, but the words tumbled out, one after the other, not really knowing what he was trying to accomplish until he found himself praying that by some lucky accident it spared Frodo’s life for just a bit longer. “It’ll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom.” Sam’s lower lip trembled. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t experience this, but he had to. He _must._ Frodo had to survive. Just for a bit longer. Then he swore he would allow him peace at last. “And the birds will be nested in the hazel thicket. And they’ll be sowing barley in the lower fields, and eating the first of the strawberries with cream.” He gasped. It was all he could do not to break down right there. “Do you remember the taste of strawberries?”

To his amazement, Frodo’s eyes had fluttered open and even then it was apparent that was all he could do. He drew in a labored breath and Sam’s heart burst with sorrow as he heard the anguished rattling hidden within the action.

“No, Sam,” Frodo whispered in reply. “I can’t recall the taste of food...nor the sound of water...nor the touch of grass.” It took him several moments of gasping before he could gather the strength to continue. “I’m...naked in the dark. There – there’s nothing...no veil...between me! And the Wheel of Fire! I can see him! With my waking eyes!”

“Then let us be rid of it...once and for all!” Sam replied through grit teeth, his jaw set, his hatred for everything around him, but the bit of stardust he held in his arms growing to astronomical proportions. “Come on, Mister Frodo! I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you! Come on!”

And suddenly like magic, like a good meal, like a long rest, Sam’s strength returned to its near full capacity and, taking full advantage of this, he pulled Frodo onto his shoulders, gripping his leg in one hand and his arm in the other, his teeth still grit, his jaw still set, as he marched slowly, steadily up the mountain, unknowingly adopted Frodo’s previous mantra as his own.

_I must! I can! I will!_

_I must! I can! I will!_

They would die, yes. Very likely it would be here on this mountainside, but first...

First they would succeed.

* * *

It was nothing short of excruciating, carrying Frodo up the mountain and Sam wore a grimace the whole time, but he bore the pain gladly, thank that in some small way he could spare Frodo more anguish, even at the end of all things. If given the chance, he knew he would do it all again and just as gladly as before if it meant Frodo would not suffer at the end of his life, even if it meant Sam suffer at the end of his.

The steps were the hardest. Steep, far too steep for Hobbits to climb, especially as weakened as they were, especially with a dying Hobbit on their back. Still Sam pressed on, gasping in pain, clinging to Frodo like a lifeline, refusing to drop him, though he was slipping, refusing to let him fall.

That had happened enough.

This last would not be painful.

Not for Frodo.

Not anymore.

Then Sam rounded a corner, looked up, and saw it.

“Look, Mr. Frodo,” he gasped, feeling a sense of relief so profound, he could’ve wept. “A doorway. We’re almost there.”

“Clever Hobbits to climb so high!”

The voice came out of nowhere, startling Sam so completely that he let out a cry as his head snapped in its direction and there, like Morgoth himself, was Gollum, perched upon a boulder that towered far over their heads.

In one fluid motion, the creature leapt from the rock and onto Frodo, who, though he remained limp and lifeless, Sam cried out as Gollum first try to pries Frodo from his back and then began to pull instead at Sam’s hair, dragging him back several steps, until at last Sam tripped on the edge of the step and fell backward, Frodo tumbling off his back and regaining what little life remained within him in an instant.

Desperately, he began to try to crawl away, too weak still to pull himself to his feet and run or even truly fight back making it only too easy for Sméagol to get his fingers around his throat as squeeze tight, Frodo’s eyes, as wide as saucers, bulging in his skull as his lips drew wide, trying to pull in breath.

Sméagol howled as Frodo did, holding Frodo down by the wrist as he began reaching up to do something, _any_ thing to get away.

“Mustn’t go that way,” the creature said, nodding in the direction of the aforementioned door. “Mustn’t hurt the precious.”

“You swore!” Frodo screamed in protest, Sméagol mocking him. “You swore on the precious! Sméagol promised!”

The creature sneered. “Sméagol lied.”

Again his fingers closed around Frodo’s throat, squeezing twice as hard as before, Frodo helpless to stop him, the only thing running through his mind over and over again: _Where_ _is_ _Sam? Where_ _is_ _my dear Sam?_ _Oh Valar, where’s_ _Sam?!_

Without warning, a rock the size of Frodo’s face smacked into Sméagol’s forehead, knocking him back, sending him tumbling end over end down the stairs back to the slopes. Frodo lay on the tarnished stone, coughing and breathing with immense difficulty, his chest heaving. He told himself time and again to get up, but all he could do was lie there and shake, his body push past the point of endurance and yet he knew he had to will it to find what it had already spent, had to drag it if he must to the edge of the door, to the Crack of Doom, beyond even, and finish his task. He was so close. So very close. He could not fail now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sméagol crawling back, recovering quickly, one hand pressed to where the rock had hit him and, when Frodo snapped his head in the beast’s direction, Sméagol rushed at him screeching blood murder.

Frodo’s eyes widened and he braced himself for another fruitless round of attempting to save his own life, but a figure flew over him, knocking Sméagol back once more and it took several long moments of watching the two bodies fight for him to recognize the other as Sam.

 _Sam!_ His heart soared, even now, even here, he felt a shadow of joy and relief, realizing that until that moment he had been convinced that Sam was dead, killed by the thing still trying to finish the job, until Sam drew Sting from his belt and lashed outwards, cutting Sméagol across the middle.

But Frodo saw none of this.

Knowing Sam still lived, seeing him fight for him, gave him back his strength and using every ounce of it, he pulled himself upright and, fingers curled into a fist around the Ring ran with all his might towards the doorway. His jaw was set, his mouth a grimace, and his brows narrowed.

It was time to be rid of it, just as Sam had said, once and for all.

Enough was enough.

* * *

Sam watched in what could only be described as awe as Frodo made it the rest of the journey to the doorway on his own, no sign of his previous weakness save for his body hunched, bent over the Ring, which remained clutched in his fist.

Following close behind, Sam went as fast as he could manage to the door and then through it, staggering across the walkway built into the heart of the Mount itself, stumbling to and fro every time the mountain spewed its innards into the sky above. Lights flashed, the interior was filled with a heat so overpowering and steam so thick he felt as though he were suffocating.

“Frodo!” he cried out, squinting through the swirling wet fog to, at last, see at the heart of it a long figure at the end of the walkway, cradling something in its palms, its shoulders hunched.

Frodo turned, looking at his friend over his shoulder. “I’m here, Sam.”

His exhaustion was evident, his eyeslids only mostly open, his lips turned down. Even his words came out much quieter than Sam’s had as his body conserved all its strength for what it was about to do, for its ultimate test.

Sam took several more cautious steps in Frodo’s direction before at last stopping and shouting, tears of desperation clouding his vision, “Destroy it!”

Frodo looked down, turning away from Sam to the Ring, still on its chain, cradled in his palm like a newborn baby bird rather than the vile thing that it was.

Swallowing hard, Sam felt his heart leap into his throat.

He couldn’t see what was happening, not from where he stood, but all of it felt oh so very wrong.

Lights flashed, thunder rumbled, the mountain shook.

Frodo held the chain, dangling it just over the edge of the precipice, staring at it, watching it sway back and forth, glittering even now in the illumination of the fires that had been its birth.

_Is that really what you want to do?_

The impassive voice of Sauron in his head.

“Go on! Now! Throw it in the fire!”

The desperate voice of Sam from behind.

Frodo’s chest heaved, his eyes going from the Ring to the liquid flames below.

_You are weak, Frodo Baggins. Together we can become strong._

Frodo had no strength left to whimper, but his eyes widened and his brows drew together as his entire body shuddered, his shoulders hunching in on themselves.

“What are you waiting for? Just let it go!”

Frodo’s gaze returned to the Ring.

_You have never known love. You have never known happiness. You have never known pleasure unless it were through pain._

Frodo stopped hearing anything else.

Even the roaring of the volcano.

Even Sam.

_Wouldn’t you like a chance to experience just a few pleasures of the purest desire before you pass from this world into the next? Wouldn’t you like to be strong, Frodo Baggins?_

_Wouldn’t you like to be strong?_

Yes, Frodo thought, his hold on the chain tightening. Yes, he thought he would like that very much. Better than anything. More than anything. It was the only thing he wanted. The only thing he’d ever wanted. And there was only one way to achieve that.

Frodo turned, his gaze returning to Sam.

And Sam’s eyes widened, terror seeped into his blood, knowing what Frodo – his dear, sweet, wonderful, _brave_ Frodo who no longer looked like himself, no longer _was_ himself — was going to say long before he ever opened his mouth to say it.

“The Ring is mine.”

And, Sam watching, he tore the Ring from the chain, smirking, his eyes boring into Sam’s as he held out his forefinger, slowly slowly moving the One ever closer to it.

“No,” Sam whispered, his heart sinking faster than a ton of bricks in the ocean. “No.”

The Ring slipped onto Frodo’s finger and he vanished.

To Sam it was as though he had died and this time he screamed, his lungs straining, his throat burning: “ _No!_ ”

Outside the Nazgûl shrieked, the light of the Eye whirling in an instant to the Crack of Doom.

Inside, Sam’s eyes darted left and right, searching for some sign of where Frodo might be, completely failing to nose the footprints sinking into the dust that covered the ledge they stood upon.

And then suddenly he collapsed, out like a light in an instant as from behind him emerged Gollum, clutched in his fist one from the rocks from outside. Mirroring Sam’s movements of a moment before, he located what Sam had missed and letting out a battle cry, rushed the figure hidden by the Ring, by his precious and jumped onto its back, wrapping his arms and legs around it, seeming to bob around in midair as Frodo screamed.

Gollum twisted at his hand, trying to get at the Ring, trying to pries it off, then trying to break his finger and let it fall off, until finally, he wrenched his arm upward, getting Frodo’s finger in his mouth and biting down hard, twisting his head back and forth until his finger at the last knuckle before his palm came free and Frodo screamed in pain.

Sam’s eyes fluttered open and refused to focus, watching this play out in bewildered bleariness, until Frodo collapsed to the ground on his side in front of Sam, clutching at profusely bleeding hand.

And there was Gollum, poised near the precipice, holding his Ring up, examining it in all its golden beauty before clenching it in his fist and jumping up and down, shouting over and over again, “Precious! Precious! Precious!”

For what felt like an eternity, Frodo could focus only on the burning, throbbing pain of his index finger and watch the blood seep from it, dripping onto the stone beneath him.

 _It belongs to you, not that_ thing _. Not that_ traitor.

Frodo’s eyes narrowed and he forced himself to his feet, limping back up the walkway.

The Eye was right.

The Ring was _his_. He’d earned it and by Valar if he wasn’t going to keep it.

In one swift movement, he was upon Gollum, grasping at his enclosed fist, he now the one trying to pries apart his fingers, he now the one fully intending to disfigure the creature as he had been disfigured.

 _Reclaim what is rightfully yours!_ Sauron screamed to Frodo.

 _Get up!_ Sam screamed to himself.

Gollum only howled.

And then, Sam still watching, the unthinkable happened.

The two warring figures tumbled over the edge of the cliff, their fate entirely unknown.

Just as on the Slopes of the Mount only an hour before, Sam’s strength surged back all at once and he ran for the lip of walkway, looking down just in time to see Gollum disappear into the magma below –

– and see Frodo clinging to what little he could to keep the same from happening to him.

The exhaustion had returned to his expression along with a bone deep hopelessness that would’ve broken Sam’s heart had he not been so stricken by panic.

He immediately dropped to his stomach, his eyes widening as he reached over the edge, straining to reach the one thing that mattered to him more than all of the earth. “Give me your hand!”

Frodo only stared up at Sam.

 _Why?_ He thought. _Why survive when I failed? Why try at all?_

“Take my hand!”

So he tried, reaching, straining for Sam’s fingers with his mangled ones, but Sam’s hand slipped on his blood and his arm fell down.

“No!” Sam shouted in a gasp, his heart hammering in his chest.

Frodo found very quickly he hadn’t the strength to lift it again.

Instead, he stared, down into the abyss of fire to the heart of the mount where the magma that had claimed Gollum, claimed the ring, flowed in a neverending deadly stream.

How easy would it be to simply let go? Let it end? Let it, at last, be over?

He _had_ failed after all. He had gotten the Ring to Mordor and only by sheer luck had it been destroyed and not through any genuine action of his own. He was as bad as Gollum, worse than Isildur.

He deserved to drown in that fiery river as much as either one of them. More, in fact.

Very lowly, he looked back up at Sam.

The only words Sam could think to describe what he saw were pleading, lost hope, self hatred.

Letting go.

Sam grit his teeth. “Don’t you let go.”

 _I’m sorry,_ Frodo’s eyes replied, an impossible sadness shining forth from within.

Again Sam lost the world to a quivering cloud behind his tears. “Don’t let go.” _Don’t leave me here alone._ _Don’t go where I can’t follow._

_I’m so very sorry, Sam._

“ _Reach!_ ”

And to Frodo’s amazement, he found that still left within him was one ounce of hope, one sliver of strength, one very small bit of him that wanted oh so desperately to live in a world and share a life with the one thing whose wealth was worth more to him than all of the Shire.

He flung his arm upwards with all of this, this time getting a firm hold on Sam’s wrist, clinging to him as he allowed the other Hobbit to pull him back up onto the ledge.

And then they collapsed, their arms locked around one another. Sam’s fingers were in Frodo’s hair, holding his trembling body to him so tightly that he was almost afraid his friend couldn’t breathe. Frodo only rest against Sam, his head on his shoulder, his eyes closed, his chest once more heaving, holding him as tightly as he could manage.

They remained this way until the mountain began to burst, lava bubbling up so quickly they had only just barely managed to regain their footing before they had run back down the walkway and out of the doorway, hot magma following them all the while, Sam dragging Frodo alongside him, knowing if he allowed him to stop even for a moment, they would be overtaken and burned quite to death.

They reached another ledge just outside the doorway and leapt from the ledge to a large boulder just as the magma flowed over it and down the mountainside.

Frodo stood, staring out across the Mordorian landscape that appeared in that moment to be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

“It’s gone...” the words came out in awed disbelief. “It’s done!”

“Yes, Mister Frodo,” Sam said, watching his friend, watching him come back to himself, bringing Sam to tears with joy, though the reality of how close he’d come to losing him preventing him from showing this on his face. “It’s over now.”

And then, one final beautiful miracle: Frodo smiled.

The mountain shuddered and they climbed further up the rock, until Sam sat heavily and Frodo beside him, laying his head back, chest still heaving, face tilted towards the sky as his eyes closed, the smile returning. “I can see the Shire!” he gasped, sounding so very tired and so very happy all at once. “The Brandywine River...Bag End...Gandalf’s fireworks...the lights in the party tree!”

“Rosie Cotton dancing,” Sam half whispered.

Frodo’s head turned a fraction towards Sam.

“She had ribbons in her hair.” Sam let out a great gasping sob. “If ever I was to marry someone...it would’ve been her! It would’ve been her...”

But Sam realized even as he said this, he no longer really meant it.

The only person he wanted to spend the rest of his days on this earth with was already beside him.

Frodo sat up, wrapping his arms again around Sam’s shoulders, pressing his forehead to Sam’s hair. “I’m glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee...” he whispered, “here at the end of all things.”

And then he closed his eyes, still struggling to breathe, still exhausted, still in pain, but relieved, thankful, grateful to be alive.

They would never know how long they remained on that little rock, staring up at the smoke, billowing up out of the top of the mountain, catching snatches of the stars through the clouds every now and again, but it had to have been hours, maybe even days.

Frodo drifted in and out of consciousness, aware only of Sam’s fingers clasped around his own every time he surged back into reality, only to fall back out of it again.

Then there came a time when he opened his eyes and he was flying, the wind moving through his hair, feeling pleasantly cool for the first time in months.

Feeling no fear.

No pain.

No heartache.

And when he closed his eyes again, it was to the most painless peace he had ever known.

**Author's Note:**

> pray for me that i actually finish this though. i've been having a hard time concentrating and whatnot lately and i really do want to finish this fic. i have an idea for the direction i want it to go in and i'm very excited to share it with you all!! expect more lord of the rings fics and don't hesitate to send me requests!!


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